


Still Falls the Rain

by Obsessive_Compulsive_Fangirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco Malfoy relates, F/M, Hermione Granger Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Hermione Granger has panic attacks, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Light Angst, OTP Feels, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, i guess this could be considered fluffy angst, idk how to tag sorry, rainfall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:00:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25534003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obsessive_Compulsive_Fangirl/pseuds/Obsessive_Compulsive_Fangirl
Summary: "Still falls the rainWith the sound like a pulse of the heart that is changed to the hammer-beatIn the Potter's field, and the sound of impious feet."
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am reiterating that this work features Hermione Granger suffering a panic attack due to her PTSD from the War. If this is i any way a troubling or triggering subject for you, please proceed with caution.
> 
> It is also worth noting that I have only ever experienced one panic attack in my life so far, and so my portrayal may not be entirely accurate. I am in no way intending to offend anyone any inaccuracies.

She could feel it coming on like a thunderstorm in mid-July. 

First, her heart racing as though someone had shot her with adrenaline, or she’d taken one too many doses of Pepper- U p. The speeding heart quickly followed by her mouth drying up and her palms dampening in their fists by her side. 

_ Deep breaths. Please, not now. Anywhere but here. In, hold, out. In, hold, out. _

It was the first week back for Hermione's eighth and final year of schooling at Hogwarts, and she was alone. Surrounded by friends, yes, but utterly without company. Harry and Ron had chosen not to be in attendance, and she felt unable to blame them. The hard struggle back to normality after a year as fugitives, while saving the wizarding world from their greatest and most dark threat, was enough to put anyone off something as mundane as returning to quiet classrooms and sitting exams in the Great Hall. So they had decided to accept Minister Shacklebolt’s offer of Auror training. Why delay the inevitable and waste a year that could be spent training, just for the sake of gaining apparently unnecessary qualifications?

And so Hermione was left alone, one of the small spattering of returning eighth year students, wanting some peace and quiet and trying so desperately to grab hold of one year of normal, plain schooling. But it was so hard to manage with two thirds of her heart gone from her side.

Sure she had Ginny and Luna to talk to, even Neville and Dean had tried to bring her into their group of friends, but it just wasn’t the same. Yes, they had all experienced the hardship of war and its after effects, but none could relate to Hermione’s own anguish and personal, emotional burdens in the way she needed.

Her head began to become fuzzy and her breathing grew heavier and more laboured as the seconds ticked by. She was barely aware of her own legs moving as she stepped away from her work station and carried her quickly out of the classroom. Why did they need to learn about cursed scars anyway? There was no known cure thus far. Hermione knew all about that.

She was running, sprinting even, down the hallways. Across the courtyard. Over the glen. She was surprised to make it as far as the Black Lake before her legs gave way beneath her and she fell forward on her hands and knees. Through sobbing breaths and the tightening in her chest she rested her forehead to the grass and pried her grip from a clump of dirt to fumble in the pockets of her robe for the one thing she knew would help. 

She found the small glass ball no bigger than a Christmas tree decoration, labeled  _ Weasley’s Wet Weather _ , and opened it. Hermione flung it in the air as her supporting arm collapsed and she fell to her side.

A quiet  _ Pop!  _ of the glass dispersing like a water balloon and it started to rain. Cool, clean water coming down in torrential sheets like a thunderstorm on a humid day. So loud to Hermione’s ears that she could not hear her own cries and gasps, so heavy on her skin that she could not feel the tears leave from her eyes and stream down her face. She rolled onto her back and lay her arms out, hands flat and grasping, kneading, at the ground.

_ You’re alright - okay - grounded. It’s over - it’s done - the war is over. Just breathe Hermione. Just breathe!  _

She willed herself to feel the ground beneath her body, to feel the rhythmic beating of the rain above her wash away the clouded thoughts and bring her back to herself. Too many times she had lost herself to her mind and been found curled up in a corner somewhere in the Burrow, an empty shell that took sometimes days to escape. The rain helped. She didn’t know why, exactly, and she’d never been more thankful for a Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes product in her life than the day George had given her a bauble to try. They helped him, he told her, when things got too much.

So she repeated her motto,  _ In, hold, out. In, hold, out,  _ as she tried to force her breathing to return to it’s steady pace. 

\--

How strange it was to see the Gryffindor Princess in such a vulnerable state.

Sitting against a lone tree by the lake’s shore, Draco Malfoy had been enjoying his free period by himself. Eyes closed, head tilted back and savouring the breeze cutting the suffocating closeness of the air around him on the warm September afternoon. That is, until a small commotion broke him out of his relaxed stupor and drew his attention immediately.

He recognised her straight away, and how could he not? Nevermind the seven or so years of schooling together, for Draco saw a glimpse of her in his dreams every night. Writhing in agony on the drawing room floor of his childhood home as his twisted aunt tortured her into oblivion. Standing fearlessly, months later, in front of the Wizengamot on his and his mother’s behalf - testifying, saving his life from a misery of rotting to death in an Azkaban prison cell. He’d take a five year probation involving school and house arrest, with minimal other restrictions, over that any day. It was a debt he wasn’t sure he would ever know how to repay.

But something was wrong, as he watched her collapse to the ground gasping for air and fling something high above her moments later. He’d have been a fool not to recognise what was happening too, if he’d not been on the other end of them so many numerous times himself in the last three years. A panic attack, and a bad one too by the looks of it.

He didn’t even recall jumping to his feet as he watched her struggle to calm down, grabbing and pulling at the grass beneath her hands in some vain attempt to stim her way out of it. Her eyes were clamped shut as the bubble of rain grew heavy and unforgiving over her. Her breaths were still sobbing, chest rising and falling in rapid succession as she failed to stop her hyperventilating. She’d pass out soon if she didn’t break it’s hold on her. She needed help. 

_ Maybe…? _

Yes. He willed himself to move towards her slowly, trying not to cause more panic in her system. He realised he longed for someone to have been there when he was suffering, it seemed wrong to let her continue without aid.

The rain fell against him in thick droplets as he drew nearer. Kneeling into the quickly forming mud around her, he brushed the strands of soaked hair away from where it had fallen across her face. In another life he would have left her there, where his past self would compare her blood to the thick soup of dirt beneath her and would have said she deserved her turmoil. Now, however, the thought nauseated him and left the acrid taste of bile at the back of his throat.

Her eyes flew open immediately at his touch, terror very much set in them as she gazed at his face. One of her hands flew up to grip at his arm in a vice-like hold and a strangled cry fell from her lips at the sight of him. It was like she was back there, in that room, and he was gazing down at her impassively as the pain shot through every cell of her body from his crazed aunt’s wand. She knew he wasn’t like that anymore. She knew he had helped the trio out as much as he could at that time, that he couldn’t save her without getting himself killed, and she didn’t blame him. But the fear was still intrinsic to her association with that memory.

Draco could see the battle going through her mind at that point and decided he couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t look at her pain any longer. The hand that had brushed away her hair swept back behind her head to support it as his other drew behind her back to lift her up and onto his lap, arms cradling her while her own hands clawed and grabbed at his robes in desperation.

And he held her close, whispering reassurances in her ear as she sobbed into his shirt and she clung to him like a lifeline. He weaved his fingers through her impossible hair and rubbed his other hand in small circles on her back while he rocked her ever so gently, similar to comforting a child, and poured all the will and energy he had into trying to calm her down.

The magic of the bottled rainstorm had started to dissipate into a fine mist by the time he could feel her grip loosen and her breath even out, but still he kept her wrapped up in him, not yet ready to look into her eyes again for fear of seeing disgust or regret set in them at his well-meaning actions. 

Instead, it was her own actions that followed. Hermione’s arms drew up around his shoulders in a tight embrace and she hid her face in the crook of his neck. She sniffed a few times before he heard her voice, as quiet as a mouse, squeak out, “Thank you, Draco.” And it broke him. A small chip in the mighty guilt he felt surrounding her and his treatment of her in all those years past fell away, and the relief that she didn’t want to hex him into St Mungos for his impertinent behaviour flooded him.

He somehow knew it would not be a singular occurrence, his helping her. Those three words had cemented in him an ambition to help her in everything she ever needed, for as long as she would let him. 

He would make it all up to her. He would aid her healing. He would be better for her.

He would.

\--


	2. Like Forty Dying Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A heart so weathered  
> Never truly sleeps. Never rests  
> The hallow beats manifest  
> Into the crippling visions of the night  
> Blanketed by such distress  
> Until the rising light does nothing  
> But awaken the regrets that were left on the nightstand  
> Like a book with one chapter. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was not planning on doing a second part to this, however a plot bunny has arisen and so I thought: “why the fuck not?”
> 
> Title and summary are from “Like Forty Dying Stars by Waleed Khalidi” found here: https://hellopoetry.com/poem/989176/like-forty-dying-stars/

It was late December, New Year’s Eve to be exact, before she needed him again. 

After the ordeal by the lake they had parted quietly, Hermione quietly nodding her thanks again before timidly shuffling off on shaky legs and Draco watching after her as if she was made of glass about to shatter. They were both covered largely by mud and grass and soaked through to the bone from head to toe, and Draco was sure that they must have looked a sight to anyone who may have seen them.

After drawing his wand and casting a quick  _ Scourgify _ and drying charm to his hair and clothes, he dragged a hand through his, now wavy, blonde locks and sighed heavily before heading back towards the tree to gather his bookbag. He wouldn’t let her get this bad again. He’d been there too many times to forget the agony and burning in your chest as you struggle to breathe. Too many times to forget the pounding in your head as your heart feels like it could rip right through your rib cage and fall to the floor. He couldn’t forget the way you felt like a shell of nothing after a particularly bad attack. Draco wouldn’t wish that on anyone, least of all her.

So he kept an eye on her as best he could, with all the subtlety he could muster, throughout the following weeks. Sitting two desks behind her in any classes they shared, picking the perfect spot to sit at during meals. Had he been following her around the castle like a lost puppy, it could almost be considered light stalking.

It wasn’t as if he was going out of his way to become her keeper, it just happened to be that they shared a great number of classes and there really was no way of avoiding meals unless you wanted to pester the elves. Draco couldn’t help it that she also happened to be at the library when he was. Couldn’t help that the newly added section on books based on surviving trauma, which he refused to admit to himself he was only looking at for her benefit, also happened to be right next to the table Hermione liked to study at.

That was how the months had passed. Hermione chose to stay at Hogwarts for the Holidays, the first time since her fourth year, although there was no handsome Bulgarian seeker here this time to keep her. No, her reasons were rather different this time. Her parents were still in Australia, Hermione not being able to bring herself to get them back while she was such a wreck. They would pity her enough without having to add her shellshock on top of it. As well as that, she didn’t think she could stand to be at the Burrow this year. The first Christmas without Fred there, and with how tense things were still between her and Ron the atmosphere was sure to be a dour one.

Mrs Weasley had been kind enough to send her presents via Pigwidgeon (a lovely knitted pair of socks adorned with  _ H _ , a gorgeous first edition  _ Hogwarts: A History  _ from Harry, some perfume that held some qualities not unlike Amortentia from Ginny, a box of sugar quills from Ron, and even George had sent her more  _ Wet Weather _ ) and had not pressed any further for Hermione to make an appearance. She and Ron had come to the agreement, after many heated arguments, that now just wasn’t the right time to try anything, that a break was just what they needed to heal. There was no point in rushing into a relationship so soon after so much tragedy when they hadn’t taken the time they needed for themselves. 

Ron had taken her wrongly at that, and thought she was accusing him of prolonging her pain and suffering. It had taken a while to convince him that that was not the case, and she just didn’t think she was ready for anything as serious as he wanted right now. The thought of losing him during the war while he had left in a jealous rage scarred her emotionally. It was still one of her more frequent nightmares that something awful had happened to him when he was gone, along with an unhinged laugh, dark eyes and unspeakable pain on a cool, marble-tiled floor. Hermione had thought it was best for both of them to take the year at Hogwarts apart to find out who they could be on their own. After all, spending eight years with someone and undergoing year after year of distressing situations with them was bound to make them co-dependent. If, at the end of the year, they still wanted to be together then fine. While he still wasn’t happy with the arrangement, there was obviously nothing else he could do to convince her, and so he reluctantly agreed it was what was best, though things had still remained terse between them until this point.

The fact that he had given her a box of her favourite sweets for Christmas was rather like extending an olive branch, she supposed, to make amends for how he had treated her in the weeks leading up to her departure on the Hogwart’s Express, and Hermione wondered what had happened to convince him now to become amicable again. 

Was he trying to butter her up? Stay in her good graces so she would easily take him back come the end of the year? Had Harry finally persuaded him that he was being a selfish prat and this had come from a place of genuine emotion? Or, worse yet in the increasing list of theories Hermione’s overthinking brain was concocting, had he gotten over her and decided he’d found some new beau, so what was the point in keeping things dry and cracked between his old one? What was worse about that one was that Hermione couldn’t decide if she was relieved or not, should it be true.

_ You’re overthinking a box of sweets,  _ she chastised herself.  _ Just eat them and get on with your schoolwork! _

But it had already set her on an edge she was having difficulty coming off of, and so by the time New Year’s had come around her reserve walls of mental stability that she had been building since that awful day in September were crumbling. Her brain was working in overdrive trying to cope with  _ N.E.W.T _ studies, Prefect duties and rounds, restarting research for  _ S.P.E.W  _ in an attempt to get the organisation back into order after an absent year or so, and now this business with Ron that she couldn’t figure out. And, really, who was she going to speak to about something like that? She didn’t really think that Ginny would want to discuss her brother in that way, and there was no one else she could turn to.

Hermione became jumpy at the slightest noise, wand clutched in a near-constant grip by her side and ready to strike at the first sign of danger. It was silly; she knew it was silly. There was very little to no chance of anything significantly troublesome happening this year, but she couldn’t help but think the calm was lulling her into a false sense of security, and with Harry and Ron absent, she needed to step up. That was what she kept telling herself, anyway.

So when a group of fourth years had decided to take it upon themselves to let off a stream of  _ Dr. Filibuster’s Wet-Start, No Heat Fireworks!  _ on the third floor outside of the library just as she happened to exit it due to the impending curfew, her resolve finally snapped, and a scream tore from her throat as suddenly as the first  _ BANG! _

Her bookbag fallen and forgotten, Hermione had raised her wand arm and was frantically scanning for anything she could stun. Looking crazed, her eyes wide and her hair seeming to stand on end, she could feel her heart racing and her chest rising and falling far quicker than it ought to as the remainder of fireworks went off above her head. Tears were blurring her vision by the time she felt gentle hands rest on her upper arms and steering her towards their owner.

The fourth years had vanished at the sound of her scream and a rather angry Madam Pince chasing after them, which left Hermione and this newcomer alone in the corridor. Arms flailing, she tried to shrug off the hands, but they remained steadfast and glued to their place in a firm and reassuring grip as they guided her towards the wall. 

Once he had brought her against the wall and lowered her to sit against it, Draco knelt in front of her and gently brought his hands to cover hers as he removed her wand from it’s choking grip and set it on the floor beside them. He returned his hands to hers and began to search in her eyes for any sign she was still somewhat there, but finding none let out a shaky breath and ran through the information in his head he had picked up from the ever revolving stack of self-help therapy books in the new section of the library.

_ Grounding, _ he thought.  _ That could work?  _

For what it was worth, anything seemed to be fair game. He had to start somewhere.

“Granger?” he tried, bringing one hand up to the side of her face in order to try and have her focus on him. Her watery gaze and rapid, heavy breathing indicated she was far away in her thoughts, likely reliving some vivid memory of the last time she had heard a noise as deafening and explosive. “Granger, I need you to look at me. Can you hear my voice? I need you to follow my voice - that’s it, right here, I’m right here,”

Her eyes gradually found their way to his own, and the brief glimpse of fear in them did not last as long as it had the last time Draco had found her in this situation, much to his own relief. “I need you to breathe with me, can you do that?” he asked, demonstrating with a few deep breaths of his own. “In and out, nice and slow, nice and deep,” 

Breathing stuttering as she tried to mimic his own, her eyes gradually found themselves able to keep contact with Draco’s while the tears they’d been holding fell. “Good, that’s very good, Granger. Keep doing that, that’s it. I’m going to ask you some questions now, okay? Try to answer me as best you can, alright? Take your time,” he nodded reassuringly, trying to gauge just how with-it she really was.

“Can you tell me two sounds you can hear right now? Any two sounds at all?” he prompted, staring patiently into her eyes.

Hermione tried so hard to focus on her surroundings, trying harder not to question why he was even trying to help her in the first place. Still, she would accept any help she could get, no matter who it came from, and he had been so very nice about it in September too. 

She supposed she could hear chattering from further down the hallway, and approaching footsteps. She told him as much, though her words were broken up by her inconsistent breathing but steadily getting more confident.

“That’s brilliant, Granger,” Draco praised, for once in seven years uttering the phrase with no malice or sardonic tone behind it. “Now, can you tell me three things you can feel right now?”

Unbeknownst to either of them they had gathered a small audience of faculty, which had been initially summoned by the wayward display of pseudo-pyrotechnics, who were listening and watching very closely to the situation. 

“I - I can feel your hands on my wrists, a-and the cold stone beneath my legs,” Hermione spoke so quietly, hardly more than a whisper, and kept her still streaming eyes stuck on his. “The hard wall behind my back.”

For all appearances, the main beast of the attack seemed to be defeated again for now. Hermione suddenly felt very tired, as was usual for this situation, and with her breathing having mostly returned to normal she now felt herself stifle a yawn. After what seemed like an eternity of having looked into Draco’s eyes, she broke contact and looked down at the floor again just as he opened his mouth to speak.

Before he could manage to get another sentence out, a loud Scottish brogue had cut him off. “What has happened here, then? Mr. Malfoy? Miss. Granger?”

Both students startled at the unexpected voice of Headmistress McGonagall, heads snapping to look in her direction, and Hermione blanched to see the small group of teachers beside her. The look on their faces was pitiful, and somewhat confused at the presence of Malfoy beside her.

She shot to her feet as quickly as her unsteady legs could manage, grabbing her wand from the floor and straightening her jumper with her hands as she went. She felt Malfoy gaze at her a moment longer before he also stood to join her. 

“Nothing, Professor. I- I was feeling unwell. Malfoy was just helping me…” her voice trailed off as she couldn’t grasp the right words to describe the situation without completely dropping herself in their ‘students-we-must-treat-with-extra-care-and-attention’ books. She didn’t need their mournful glances at her every time they saw her.

“Professors,” Draco said, stepping in to take the theoretical baton from her, “A group of fourth year students from Gryffindor set off a rather large bundle of fireworks a short time ago. I believe Madam Pince is off demanding retribution for the disturbed silence of her library. I was studying when I heard the commotion and followed the noise to find Granger here in the thick of it. I just wanted to make sure she was alright before I returned to my books,”

His voice was steady and even and everything Hermione’s had not been. Much more convincing, she was sure of it. 

“Yes, well. Ten points to Slytherin for your compassion towards a fellow student. You may return to your studies, I will look after Miss. Granger from here. Thank you, Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall started towards the pair, arm reaching out to guide Hermione down the hallway towards the staircases. 

Draco stepped in Hermione’s direction as she was being led away and rather hastily opened his mouth again, “If it’s all the same to you, Professor, I’d like to take her to Madam Pomfrey myself, if you wouldn’t mind?” He gathered her abandoned bookbag and  _ Accio’d _ his own before heading to her side again. 

McGonagall looked between the two students carefully regarding their own expressions for any sign of deceit or unwillingness on either part. Seeming happy with what she found she nodded curtly before saying, “Very well, straight to Madam Pomfrey’s if you please. Curfew is upon us and I don’t wish to have either of you out of your dormitories any later than necessary.”

Both students nodded and headed off in the direction of the first floor hospital wing.

Professor McGonagall sighed after their retreating figures and turned to Professor Slughorn before shaking her head, “I’m not sure we’ll ever find out why Mr. Malfoy has decided to turn over several new leaves today, but I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Right, back to the party,” she turned to her charms professor, “Perhaps, FIlius, we should forgo the fireworks this year in favour of something more appropriate. It seems it may be detrimental to several students.”

Professor Flitwick simply nodded, murmuring an agreement and followed as they headed toward the Room of Requirement where glasses overflowing with mead and champagne awaited them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I expect there may be a third part to this following Draco and Hermione to the hospital wing. I was going to continue writing it for this part but honestly I’m so impatient I just wanted to get this part over and done with and posted asap so this was the result. Hope you've enjoyed it!!!
> 
> Thanks again to @Jenlynne for helping me with punctuation and grammar!!

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this Facebook post, which was shared on Strictly Dramione as a request and I couldn't stop myself: https://www.facebook.com/100001969577645/videos/3125863610822594/
> 
> Title and summary come from this poem by Edith Sitwell ( https://poetryarchive.org/poem/still-falls-rain/ )
> 
> I had a very different vision for this one shot and somehow it got away from me, so we’re left with this. 
> 
> Beta’d by the ever so lovely @Jenlynne, you make my sleep deprived writing so much better and I can’t thank you enough.
> 
> Dramione is a great love of mine and I can’t help but come back to it time and time again.


End file.
